


That Mad Man

by GamblingDementor



Category: In the Heights - Miranda, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Troika, gentrification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GamblingDementor/pseuds/GamblingDementor
Summary: There’s an aura of crazy danger surrounding Balaga that he can’t quite apprehend. Crazy or crazy attractive. He can’t say. The kind of dangerous that he knows will never turn against him.Troika. Piragua. Balaga.Balagua.





	That Mad Man

**Author's Note:**

> I went with the nickname Gordo for the Piragua Guy in this fic, you don't have to agree with it. It's not a canon name by any means.

Sundays are Gordo’s favorite day. Not just because there’s much more relaxed people out on the street, ripe and ready for him to convince into making business with him. His piragua sales always boom on Sundays and he loves the smiles on little kids’ faces when he hands them a cup of the delicious cold treat in their favorite flavor. The real treat for him, however, is at the end of the day. Every Sunday night, once the syrups almost run out and Gordo’s pockets ring thick with coins, his Russian scoundrel of a boyfriend picks him up and they drive out of town for a sometimes quiet, or significantly more often thrilling and surprising night out together. Gordo can never know in advance, which is perhaps why he loves Sundays so much.

Or usually, he does.

“My love, you look troubled.”

Balaga’s rough callused hand covers his − Gordo used to fear Balaga not grasping the steering wheel more strongly at all times, mostly because of his erratic driving, every turn a little bit too sharp. He doesn’t fear that anymore. Balaga swears his faithful Troika, as he affectionately dubs his old Russian car, has never failed him once. Gordo is a simple piragua guy and knows nothing of these things. The only thing he drives is his little Boricua cart of sugary wonders. He doesn’t trust the car nearly as much as his boyfriend does, but he trusts Balaga, so he guesses that is enough.

“I  _am_  troubled,” he admits, because Balaga is the one person in the world he confides all his concerns to.

“Who need I kill?” Balaga asks, his rough Russian accent always so soothing to Gordo.

The car jerks sideways. Gordo still has no idea where they’re heading, but even more than that mystery, Balaga himself is unreadable at times. This is another one of his jokes that aren’t quite jokes. No one ever laughs − even Gordo only snorts awkwardly at best. There’s an aura of crazy danger surrounding Balaga that he can’t quite apprehend. Crazy or crazy attractive. He can’t say. The kind of dangerous that he knows will never turn against him.

“No one, but if you could… really be mean to Mr Softee…” he sighs.

“No one is as soft as my gentle dove,” Balaga replies immediately.

Gordo almost smiles at that, but the concerns growing in his mind are too heavy.

“What is problem?” Balaga’s thumb strokes his palm with so much gentleness, a side of him that people never see except Gordo.

“He’s been parking his truck down the 181st. My sales plummeted today.”

Balaga’s Troika takes another very sharp turn but shows no signs of stopping. They’re out of the city by now, nearing the suburbs with still no idea of their destination. Is this a longer trip they’re just starting? Should he have packed a change of clothes?

“Are you sure I don’t need kill?” Balaga jokes, maybe.

“No, I… I just don’t want to lose my business.”

There is silence between them but it’s never uncomfortable, not with him. They’re out of the phase in their relationship where they needed to fill every single gap with words. At the beginning, they loved to try and teach each other their languages, breach the distance between them with their own words, but Balaga was a mess at Spanish and Gordo fared no better with Russian. They’ve settled for English, and only when they want to talk. Sometimes, they don’t have to. Gordo feels Balaga’s support either way.

“I wouldn’t be the first, either, you know the Rosarios have sold to Uptown?”

Balaga nods.

“One day, Uptown will sell to Balaga. And Balaga will destroy Softee.”

Gordo laughs, only because it’s easier than to cry. It is true that Balaga’s cab business is doing much better than the Rosarios, but there’s a wave of local businesses closing down and he’s afraid for his little cart. His piraguas are little rays of sunshine, rainbow colored treats he hands out to anyone who will buy one, and he doesn’t want the city to turn gray again.

They drive a long while farther and Balaga’s hand never leaves Gordo’s, until the car slowly, painfully draws to a stop with a loud creak. Gordo realizes he hasn’t looked at where they were going at all, so caught up in his somber thoughts.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Cliff,” Balaga answers. He gets out of the car, slams the door shut − it shakes way more violently than Gordo thinks normal, but he doesn’t comment on it − and grabs a few things from the backseat Gordo hadn’t even noticed. A blanket, a tote bag where Gordo sees a bottle of vodka and some snacks. He gets out too. “Picnic. It’s romantic. Stars at night are beautiful here.”

“Are they now?” Gordo smiles. “Or are you just trying to get laid?”

Balaga looks at him with an eyebrow cocked but says nothing. He puts down the blanket, flattens it down, sets out a nice little meal for two.

“Alright,” Gordo shrugs, butterflies fluttering up in his stomach.

“First eat,” Balaga says. “Then vodka. And then laid.”

They follow that plan to a t.

The next day, someone has slashed the tires of Mr Softee’s truck. Gordo’s business is back to town. No need to wonder who protected the piragua sales.


End file.
